


Tell Me Something Good

by MissMegh



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: And is stubborn, BDSM elements, Clint worries, Even when she has to pull their heads out of their asses, F/M, Hot Phil Coulson, Insecure Phil, Is hot, M/M, Multi, Natasha watches out for her boys, communication issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-01
Updated: 2014-01-01
Packaged: 2018-01-07 00:59:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1113618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissMegh/pseuds/MissMegh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Until about two seconds ago, everything had been awesome. Phil Coulson was back in Clint’s arms, and they’d been making out like teenagers. He could get used to this so easily. It was a hell of a pleasant change from his life up til a month ago.</p>
<p>Then there was the scar.</p>
<p>Clint hadn’t realized how difficult it would be to see it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tell Me Something Good

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Telaryn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Telaryn/gifts).



This should not have been a problem.

Until about two seconds ago, everything had been awesome. Phil Coulson was back in Clint’s arms, and they’d been making out like teenagers on Phil’s bed. Clint hadn’t had the luxury of making out like a teenager since he’d actually been a teenager, so the moment was definitely appreciated. He could get used to the plush softness of Phil’s mattress and comforter, not to mention the solid warmth of their bodies pressed against each other, the heady sensation of Phil bracing over him and taking deep, thorough tastes of Clint’s mouth. He could get used to it so easily. It was a hell of a pleasant change from his life up til a month ago.

Their hands were unhurried, dreamlike drifting over cloth and buttons, exposing skin in slow anticipatory motions and taking the time to slide and caress. Clint’s shirt was the first casualty, then Phil’s button-down, dropped over the side of the bed with no regrets. Clint loved the way Phil looked in expensive clothes, but he found he liked him even better out of them.

It was when Phil stripped off his undershirt that everything went to hell. For one thing, it involved raising his arms over his head, which was still apparently painful; Clint saw the minute flinch at the creased corners of Phil’s eyes. For another, there was the Scar.

Clint hadn’t realized how difficult it would be to see it.

He’d seen the footage. Loki’s scepter had burst through Phil’s chest from behind, and really the Scar wasn’t nearly as bad as it could have been, considering. Just a long, raised welt of mostly-healed flesh jagging to the left of Phil’s sternum. Everything else was good—perfect—but that scar…

There was no way Phil could miss the way Clint stilled, the way his hawk eyes zeroed in on the closed wound. He settled slowly back on his heels, letting Clint look, giving him his space. Phil was almost as good at watching as Clint was. Phil never missed a tell, knew how much to push and when to let it go. Clint appreciated it, especially right now. It gave him time to get the distance he needed. He wasn’t as good with up-close things, he knew this about himself.

Clint laid a hand on Phil’s collarbone, sliding it slowly down (holy hell Phil was ripped, even after convalescence and therapy and those damn gas station donuts) to his heart, feeling for himself that it was still beating, that the scar hadn’t taken Phil away from him for good. There wasn’t much to feel, not anymore. His fingers flinched away from the healed wound anyway.

Phil made a small, soft, punched-in-the-stomach noise, and Clint immediately raised his eyes to Phil’s face, cursing himself. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to hurt it.”

“You didn’t.” Phil attempted a smile. “I know it’s ugly.”

“What? Wait, no.” The phrasing, the tone, made Clint’s chest hurt. “It’s—don’t bullshit me, Phil, I saw you flinch. If you’re not one hundred percent—”

“Clint.” Phil’s brows were pulling together, the lines around his mouth starting to strain. “I’m okay. Medical cleared me months ago.”

“And your PT?”

“I’ve been on more ops than you have in the past two weeks,” Phil pointed out.

“By which you mean babysitting.” Clint couldn’t help the deadpan, it just slipped out. But seriously, Phil Coulson went from running the Avengers (the Norse demigod, the Dr.-Jekyll-Mr.-Ragemonster, the assassin wonder twins, the supersoldier, the rocket-suited billionaire, and all the issues that went with them) to a group of precious ducklings that had somehow managed to get level 7 clearance? Okay, not May, she’d watch Phil’s back, but wow the others were all _babies._ Even wonderchild Agent Ward, who was nowhere near Clint’s abilities as a sniper, thank you very much _(best scores since Romanoff my ass, see if I do anything nice for Hill ever again)_.

Phil gave him a flat look that told Clint yes, he had indeed followed that unspoken train of thought and no, he wasn’t impressed. Clint wasn’t particularly sorry. A month ago he’d barely recovered from the heart attack (fuck you, hyperbole-hating high school Lit teacher, that’s what it damn well felt like) of finding out that Phil Coulson was alive and telling him to breathe, Barton, breathe. A week before that he’d been drunk and bawling on Natasha’s couch. He thought he was coping damn well with this. He hadn’t even tried to kill Fury too hard. If that meant his brain was throwing up a little worry over the health and comfort of his partner, then oh well.

“Clint.”

“Phil.”

“I’m fine.” And Clint really wanted to believe that, especially with that laserlike blue gaze pinning him to the mattress like a boss, but he wasn’t Hawkeye for nothing and he’d seen that flinch.

“You’re kinda not, sir.”

The discussion did not go well after that.

\-----

“Clint.”

“Natasha.”

“You remember what I told you about arguments?”

“Natasha always wins.” Clint flipped her a sardonic salute from where he lay upside down on the couch, his legs hooked over the back. She replied with something anatomically unlikely in Russian, to which he laughed. Hey, it was her fault for being so quotable.

“The second thing I told you about arguments.”

Ah, that one. “Don’t get into arguments right before sex.” His mouth twisted a bit. Technically it hadn’t been before sex, but only because after the argument there was no sex. Hence the thing Nat told him about arguments.

“You’re not good at following that rule,” Natasha observed, carding her fingers through his hair.

“Never got into the habit of shutting up.” He closed his eyes at the sensation. Nat was good with her hands, whatever she did with them. Long slender fingers, short sharp nails. Despite their deadly capability, he had comforting memories of her hands.

“Mm. I do know.” Her nails slid behind his ear, scratching delicately. He murmured indistinctly; damn the woman and her good memory. That was one of those spots that felt really, really good. It was also unfairly soothing when he was trying to be morose about still not getting sex. Sex with Phil. Goddammit he really wanted sex with Phil. Not, though, if it was going to hurt Phil.

“Have you tried believing him when he says it’s not an issue?” Natasha asked idly, her fingers finding tense spots and crushing them into submission. Clint could feel them relaxing out of sheer terror.

“Mmn. He flinched, Nat,” Clint mumbled, his eyes flickering open, hazy blue searching for sharp green. “He never flinches. It hurt him.”

Natasha said nothing, but her thumb pressed hard against the base of his skull. Clint grimaced as the muscle unkinked, and took it as halfhearted agreement.

\-----

Even after eight years working for SHIELD, after all the medical emergencies and interrogation training and actual interrogations and missions gone wrong, Clint’s first reaction to being tied up was always _This ought to be good._ Tone and sarcasm level varied; right now, sarcasm was rock-bottom and the hair on his arms was standing straight up, partly because bare skin did that and mostly because he was on his knees with Natasha to his left and Phil in front of him.

“A blindfold?” Phil sounded entirely too perturbed for a man Clint last remembered wearing boxer shorts and socks with two naked assassins in his room. “I’m not certain that solves the issue.”

“Trust me, he likes it.” Natasha smoothed her hand over Clint’s cheek, pressing his head against her thigh. He nuzzled into her soft skin, flexing his wrists in the leather cuffs. They were in front of him this time; that was nice of her. “He watches too much sometimes. This helps.”

“I take it you two talked?” Clint ventured, tilting his head in the direction of Phil’s voice. Natasha smacked him lightly on the temple, making him shiver and shut up. She knew how to properly tie a blindfold; his eyes were no use right now. It was an adrenaline rush, being deprived of his primary weapon. Nat’s hand on his cheek and Phil’s voice in his ears kept him from burrowing into his own head to hide. He wanted to be present here. He wanted to feel everything.

“We did,” Natasha answered him graciously. “Coulson still has some questions.” Her fingers pressed on Clint’s jaw, turning his face up toward Phil. “Answer them promptly.”

Clint nodded, looking up at where Phil had been. It was hard to tell if he was still there; his steps were always quiet, and he hadn’t said anything for a bit. Waiting for Phil to speak was starting to make him tense up. His knees began to ache.

“Come here, Clint,” Phil said at last. Clint obediently crawled forward, stopping when body heat told him that he was close. As tall as Phil was, Clint knew his chin was level with the waistband of those silk boxers. He couldn’t help licking his lips.

“You don’t like the scar.” It wasn’t a question. Clint nodded, but slowly; obvious statements weren’t like Phil. “It bothers you. Why?”

It was hard to answer quickly and still think through everything he wanted to say. He didn’t want to mess up his words; Natasha would punish him. He didn’t want to disappoint her or Phil. “Every time I see it, I think of how you were hurt.”

“And?” Phil prompted.

Clint’s brows drew down in confusion. And what? “And I’ll be damned if I hurt you again, sir,” he finished eventually.

“If you want a different answer, you’re going to have to ask a different question,” Natasha said. With that inflection, Clint was sure it had come with one of her looks. Probably the one that said _I know you’re not actually this dense, now figure it out._ She didn’t use that one often on Phil. What did she know that Clint didn’t?

Slight shift of feet, and a soft brushing noise that Clint normally associated with Phil folding his arms. Phil was uncomfortable. “Is this really necessary?”

“Him on his knees? No, but it helps.” Natasha stepped delicately between Clint’s legs from behind, stroking his shoulders. “He looks good like this, too.”

It was frustrating not being able to see Phil’s face when he sounded so troubled. Clint couldn’t see body language, the tension of thin lips or the way his hands flexed in the air. “That’s what I mean. You’ve—you both know this. You’ve had each other. How did you do it? He must have worried about you.”

“I never came back from the dead,” Natasha said calmly. Clint knew that calm, and what it hid. He hadn’t been alone on the couch, before Phil came back; Nat had been right there with him, just as drunk and just as wretched. It had been nearly three months since they’d lost Phil, the anniversary of their first op as a team, and the only one they’d ever spent without all three of them there. Natasha had iron in her voice, a clear refusal to talk about her own demons before this scene was over. “What do you want to ask?”

Soft exhalation, resigned. “Clint.” It probably looked pathetic, the way Clint immediately strained upward to catch everything. “Do you… have any regrets?”

“I wish I’d been there,” Clint said immediately. “I wish I could've put an arrow through his skull.”

Now there was touch, finally, a warm, firm hand against his face, stroking. Clint leaned into it, turning his head to brush his lips against the palm. He felt Phil shiver this time. It made his stomach curl in excited knots. “I’m glad you weren’t,” Phil murmured. “I’m glad Natasha was there to pull you back out.”

“Still want to blow his head up,” Clint mumbled against Phil’s skin. Natasha’s nails scraped a light warning against his neck for the unprompted answer, but he welcomed it. Everything he said was true. It got a soft chuckle out of Phil, at least. Worth it.

“Why don’t you like looking at the scar?” Phil asked.

“Is the scar physically unappealing?” Natasha clarified when Clint hesitated.

The question startled him. “It looks like it hurts.” Why was Phil asking—? …oh. Oh, hell no. Clint’s eyes widened behind the blindfold. “You’re not ugly.”

Natasha chuckled. Phil’s hand on Clint’s face stilled. It was enough of an answer that Clint couldn’t keep quiet. “Seriously, sir?” Incredulity was not the word. “You still don’t see how hot you are?”

“Punk.” Oh, that tone meant Phil was blushing. Damn blindfold, Clint hated it now. He loved seeing that. “You aren’t supposed to talk back like this.” Annnnd that was a hand fisting in his hair, and Clint’s breath was speeding up, his back arching forward just a little.

“Yes, sir.” He didn’t give a damn how breathy he sounded right now. He wanted that hand to grip harder.

“That enough of an answer for you?” There was velvet in Natasha’s voice now, the kind that meant pain or pleasure or both, and if Clint’s dick hadn’t been hardening before it damn well would be now. “On the bed. Not you, _lapushka,_ Phil.”

Clint crawled over to the bed anyway, nudging between Phil’s legs to get closer. “Might want to get your eyes checked, sir,” he said, ignoring the light slap of Natasha’s hand to the back of his head. “Dunno how you see that in the mirror every day and think you aren’t the sexiest fucking thing in the world.” Natasha was making disapproving noises at his lack of discipline, but all Clint wanted to do was bury his face in Phil’s lap. He could feel his hands shaking in the cuffs. When was the last time he’d been this eager? _Desperate,_ call it what it was. He was dying to touch.

“I’m in love with a crazy man,” Phil murmured, but there was a smile in his voice, and warmth that was more than just affection. “Of all people, you pick me. You, looking like sin on legs. How did you pick someone like me out of a crowd?”

“You shot me, sir.” In love. Clint’s heart beat an answering, drunken tattoo against his ribs.

“Smartass.” Phil’s hand was curling around the back of Clint’s head, and Clint went forward willingly. It wasn’t Phil’s cock that his lips encountered, though. It was the scar.

Like this, without sight, it was just warm skin and the smell of Phil. The long, jagged mark was just a message for Clint to read, and he nuzzled every inch of it, tracing it with lips and tongue, rubbing his cheek catlike against it and savoring Phil, feeling him alive and shivering under Clint’s caresses.

Breath exploded out of Phil in a rush and both hands pulled Clint’s face up so Phil could kiss him, long and deep and open. Clint gave it back fiercely, pressing as much of himself against Phil as he could manage, thrills shooting down his spine at the hot strain of Phil’s dick through his boxers. He couldn’t keep his hands to himself anymore, pulling at that frustrating cloth and kneading increasingly slick flesh. Natasha was a warm presence behind him, murmuring Russian endearments, not pushing but supporting, her hands on his back and her hips cradling his head. He was surrounded by heat and flesh, and god he wanted.

Phil’s hand fisted in his hair again, dragging Clint out of the kiss. He whimpered a protest at the separation and didn’t care who heard. “Hush, brat,” Phil murmured. “No more talking.” Then that grip dragged Clint’s head down and yes, fuck, finally. Clint opened his mouth and sucked Phil in as hard as he could, reveling in the throaty groan it got him. More. Definitely needed more. He didn’t bother teasing, just drew back and plunged down, opening his throat and working for the needy sounds Phil was giving him.

It didn’t take long at all, and Clint licked his lips smugly when he finished sucking Phil clean. From the feel of it, Phil had collapsed back on the bed. Score. Clint laid his cheek on one bared thigh with a huff of contentment.

“Up,” Natasha instructed softly, and he obliged, following her hands as she helped him onto the bed and onto Phil. It was delicious, the way Phil lay boneless underneath him, stroking his face and back. Eventually fingers pushed at the blindfold, and Clint blinked hazily into Phil’s soft blue eyes.

“I promise you, nothing you can do will hurt me,” Phil told him quietly. “I’m not letting anything separate us again.” One corner of his mouth quirked up in that smile Clint loved so much. “Demigods included.”

“I pity the poor bastard who tries it.” Clint laid a kiss on Phil’s breastbone, then another on his chin. Phil’s smile widened, and he bent down to kiss Clint properly, rolling them both to the side to make it easier. It put Clint between Phil and Natasha, which was fucking fantastic, and he snuggled against both of them, their legs all tangled together in a languid pile.

“Glad you two got that figured out.” Nat’s voice purred against Clint’s shoulder, and he glanced back to give her a lazy grin. “Now, I seem to recall you being a disobedient ass as usual.” Green eyes shifted to look at Phil, glinting. “He makes excellent noises when you spank him.”

“Does he.” There was a deeper note in Phil’s voice that made Clint shiver. “I’d like to see that.”

“Me too,” Clint agreed, and burying his face in Phil’s scarred chest didn’t dim his grin at all.


End file.
